Chosen (16 page)

‘Stocks and shares, or so I was told. Then, when he thought that had peaked, he moved into property and made another fortune buying and selling land. He still has a huge property portfolio. He's one of those naturally acquisitive people who just can't seem to help making money, whatever they're doing.'

‘I can tell you enjoy your work. It's about the most enthusiastic I've seen you.'

‘I admit it. It's great fun and it's not really hard work. There's a great satisfaction in fixing people up with somewhere to live.'

‘Like me, you mean?'

‘Exactly. Don't get me wrong. We get some awkward customers now and again, but you were easy. I could sell to you all day.'

Nash glanced at the clock and realized he was in danger of outstaying his welcome.

Monique escorted him down the long hallway to the front door, where she handed him a bag containing a bottle of wine she'd secreted under the hall table. ‘Here's a house warming present for you, along with my thanks.' She handed him the bag, leaned forward and kissed him lightly. She stepped back and smiled.

Nash opened the glass-paned front door. It was a bright, moonlit night. Monique hovered on the threshold. He held out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation she stepped outside. He continued to hold her hand as they looked up at the beauty of the night sky. They turned to one another and kissed once more. This time there was no avoiding the passion in their embrace.

‘I'd better go,' Nash's words were muffled by her hair as he kissed her neck. ‘If I don't, I won't be able to leave at all.'

‘Yes, I think you should,' Monique agreed reluctantly. ‘Otherwise I won't allow you to.'

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Goodnight again, Monique.'

She stepped back into the doorway. ‘At least you managed to get me out of the house,' she told him. ‘Not far, I admit, but across the doorstep is a start.'

Monique watched him walk down the path. When he reached the gate she waved, then went inside and closed the door. She leaned against it for a while, her eyes filled with tears of frustration. Why hadn't she the courage to make him stay?

Fifty yards down the road, a figure sat in the darkness of an unlit vehicle, parked as far from the street lamps as possible. What faint light permeated the vehicle reflected the hot glitter of rage in the eyes of the shadowy occupant.

As Nash drove home, he was still trying to work out whether the present had been the wine or the kiss.

He opened the bottle and had a couple of glasses. The day had tired him and it was no later than 11 p.m. when he went to bed. He realized once he was in bed that he'd forgotten to take his tablets.
He couldn't decide whether to get out of bed and go for them, but he knew he should. He'd left them in the kitchen again. The bed was warm and he was reluctant to move. He was still trying to make his mind up when he fell asleep.

During the early part of the night he slept well, but towards dawn he became restless. After waking and slipping back asleep several times, he sat up in bed. Something was plaguing him. That same distant memory, something that was ringing faint bells. The more he tried to grasp it, the more elusive it became.

‘Morning, Clara, you look rested. Good day off?'

‘Very good. I took David to meet my parents. He's going abroad again. I wanted them to meet him before he leaves.'

‘Where's he going, do you know?'

Clara shook her head. ‘They're not allowed to disclose anything.'

‘Understandable, given his job.'

‘Anything happen here?'

‘Very quiet, for a change. While I see what we're faced with today, you write up your report on the Harland visit.'

Mironova had fielded a phone call from Tracey Forrest. ‘You remember, her husband is a lorry driver on the Continent? His trip got cancelled, ferry strike or something. Mrs Forrest said if you want to see them, it'd have to be tonight. He's rescheduled to be away again tomorrow, and won't be back for ten days. Problem is, I've got a complimentary ticket to the re-opening of Netherdale cinema, so you'd have to go alone unless you really want—'

‘I'm sure I'll cope.' Nash stopped suddenly.

‘What is it,' Clara looked at him.

‘Something you said just now.' Nash frowned with concentration, ‘That's it. Something's been niggling away at me. You mentioned Megan Forrest's mother. Get Megan's file out for me, will you. I'm going to need it anyway. Look at the list of witnesses who were identified as being at the pub the night Megan was abducted.'

‘Anyone in particular I should be looking for?'

‘Yes, a man by the name of Franklin, Les Franklin. I'm sure that's where I saw his name before.' Nash explained his conversation
with Monique. ‘If he is on that list, he might be worth putting on our list of possibles.'

‘We don't have a list of possibles other than Bailey.'

‘Well, now we can start one. Although it may be nothing more than coincidence. After all, the man does live there, and it's not exactly a big place.'

‘Okay, I'll check it out.'

 

With no chauffeur to take him to Bishopton, Nash read the file contents beforehand. Megan Forrest had gone out on New Year's Eve, two years previously. She'd left The Plough Inn on Bishopton Market Place at about 2.30 a.m. to walk home. She never arrived. Nash sighed, how many times had he read that phrase. He looked at the girl's description and the clothing she'd been wearing when she disappeared and blinked with astonishment.

A note further down the page provided an explanation, nevertheless the singularity of Megan's attire set Nash thinking. The Plough Inn had been holding a fancy dress competition. The event would have been well publicized. If Nash was right about the killer, he'd have known about it well in advance. It would have been easy to hire a costume. In a crowded town-centre pub, one more bizarre outfit would have passed unnoticed. Well, perhaps not unnoticed, but certainly not out of place.

Nash was certain that was what had happened. The killer would have his identity hidden behind the anonymity of his costume. Probably something requiring a mask; if he was known to Megan, he'd have to be masked. Perhaps a gorilla costume, or Darth Vader, maybe a cartoon character. He could have loitered close to where Megan lived so he could see how she was dressed. He would watch her emerge from the house, note the clown's costume, then driven to The Plough. By the time Megan arrived, the killer would have been near the bar, drink in hand, hovering at the edge of a group perhaps, appearing to be part of it. All the time he'd be watching Megan from behind his mask, waiting for the moment she left.

The killer would have left before her, just one more reveller homeward bound. Once she was clear of the town, he'd have been able to carry out the abduction, safe in the knowledge that at that
hour on New Year's Morning, no one would interrupt him. Nash shuddered at the cold-blooded simplicity of it.

He read on. Towards the bottom of the page a dismissive note had been added, presumably by someone from CID. ‘No Facts' it stated, ‘Nothing to work with.' ‘I know just how you feel,' Nash muttered.

Mironova wandered in to tell him she was on her way home. ‘Enjoy yourself,' Nash told her. ‘Don't think of me slaving away, trying to solve a multiple murder case, will you?'

‘I won't give it a thought,' Mironova replied with a grin. ‘Is there anything you need before I go?'

‘Just let me run this by you. See if you can spot any flaws.' Nash explained his theory about Megan's disappearance.

‘Can't see anything wrong with that. I'm beginning to think you're right about this character. Maybe he is a perverted genius. Anything else?'

‘I don't think so. No, hang on. Can you tell me where Deanery Close is in Bishopton?'

Mironova shook her head. ‘Sorry, I don't know Bishopton well. I've just seen the Fire Officer heading into the building. He'll give you directions.'

‘We might make a detective out of you yet.'

Mironova gave him a gesture which was unladylike, rude and certainly insubordinate. Nash grinned and returned to the report.

Megan had been eighteen when she vanished. She'd left school the previous summer and was unemployed. There was a note on the file, however, to the effect that in the run-up to Christmas she'd been working for a local chain of convenience stores, as a temporary seasonal staff. The report stated she'd been a bright but not exceptional pupil, and was well liked both at school and at the shop. So much so, that she'd have been first to be offered a permanent position when a vacancy arose.

Both parents had reported her missing. Steve Forrest had returned from the Continent late on New Year's Eve, having been delayed by storms in the Channel. He'd gone to bed as soon as he got home, and it was only when Megan's mother found her room empty, the bed not slept in, that the couple contacted the police.

Nash closed the file and left it on his desk. Douglas Curran, the Chief Fire Officer, was supervising a shift change, so Nash waited in the fire brigade canteen until he was free. ‘Come through to my office.'

Nash was reminded of his visit to Rushton Engineering. Like their MD, Curran appeared to have a fetish for neatness. Nash thought of the organized chaos of his own desk and sighed wistfully.

‘Now, Mike, what can I do for you? I thought you'd everything under control, you wrapped that murder case up so quickly.'

‘Some of them are easier than others, Doug,' Nash said with a rueful smile. ‘What I'm after is directions to a property in Bishopton. Do you cover that area from here?'

‘We do, one of the so-called benefits of rationalization. I'm not sure how they thought the policy up. Fires don't burn slower because we've to travel further to tackle them. Why do you want to go to Bishopton? Is it another juicy murder, or can't you tell me?'

Nash smiled. ‘To be honest, I've no hard evidence that a crime has been committed. Just a lot of supposition and guesswork. If I'm right, it's more than one murder.'

‘How many?'

‘At least seven.'

‘Good God, tell me more!'

Nash outlined the disappearances, commenting on the ease with which the killer had picked up his victims.

‘I understand that. We preach fire safety whenever we can, but time after time we get called out to fires because some idiot has failed to take the simplest of precautions. It doesn't make our job any easier, and they look at you as if you're mad when you bollock them for it. Deep down, you know you're talking to yourself. From what you said, all those girls were alone, at night, in the dark and for the most part in lonely places. If that's not inviting trouble, I don't know what is. I hope you catch the bastard. Now, tell me whereabouts you want to be.'

Nash climbed into the CID car and set out for his destination. He didn't have to go to Bishopton at all. Nash had been shown the location on a large map. The fire chief pointed out the best route. As Nash pulled out of the yard, he was unaware that Curran was
watching him from his office window, a curious expression on his face.

 

Deanery Close was a terrace of mews cottages that had been renovated, within the last few years Nash guessed. Steve and Tracey Forrest owned the end house, the largest in the block. Steve Forrest, a thickset man in his late forties, answered Nash's knock and showed him through to the dining kitchen, where Tracey was seated at the table, nursing a mug of coffee. The room was light, airy, scrupulously clean and tidy. The overall effect was ultramodern, a kitchen for the space age, in contrast to the building's exterior.

Of the mothers he'd met, Tracey was the one most like her daughter. She too had a mane of lustrous blonde hair, and like Megan had the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones that promised a beauty that wouldn't fade.

They discussed Megan's disappearance for some time, then Tracey began telling Nash about their other children. Nash listened patiently as she told him about Steve junior, a fifteen-year-old with ambitions to become the next David Beckham. Of Rianne, now nineteen and studying law at Newcastle University, and of Shelley, rising twelve and torn between a desire to become a pop star and an ambition to win the Wimbledon Ladies title.

‘You'll notice they're all aiming for better jobs than ours,' Steve commented ironically. ‘They'll be able to care for us in our old age. There's not much money in road haulage these days, even less as a cook.'

‘You don't seem to be doing badly,' Nash suggested. ‘This house is lovely.'

Tracey said, ‘It came on the market at the right time. We needed something bigger. It's too big for a lot of families and there's the disadvantage of it being so remote. Unless you've two cars, a family would be totally isolated out here. That's why it was for sale longer than the others. We were a bit cheeky with the bid. It surprised us when it was accepted.' Her face changed abruptly; her eyes filled with tears. ‘At least we thought it was lucky at the time. I wish we'd never moved. If we'd stayed put maybe Megan would still be with us.'

Nash attempted to console her. ‘I don't think you should look at it that way. If what we suspect is true, I don't think where you were living enters into it.'

‘Can you explain that?' Forrest asked. He put a consoling arm around his wife's shoulder.

Once they'd assimilated the full horror of what he told them, Tracey Forrest was the first to react. ‘Why has no one thought of this before? Why has it taken this monster to attack seven girls before anyone sits up and takes notice?'

‘I can't answer that. Not satisfactorily, anyway. The other girls are mainly from out of our area and over a long period of time. I wasn't here when Megan went missing. I worked in London until two years ago. Perhaps it was a fresh pair of eyes, a different approach. Or maybe I'm more used to this sort of crime.'

Steve Forrest had been studying Nash intently. ‘I thought your face looked familiar,' he exclaimed. ‘You were in the papers back then. Weren't you the bloke who was responsible for catching Donald Marston?'

Nash was taken by surprise, he merely nodded.

‘It was in all the tabloids,' Forrest explained. ‘You read a lot in my job, waiting to be loaded and unloaded, queuing for ferries and the like, or when you're out of tachograph hours.' He turned to his wife. ‘If anyone can find out what happened to Megan, Mr Nash is the man. I remember one paper said it was “a brilliant piece of detective work, close to genius”. That's pretty strong stuff, even for the tabloids.'

The thought of Megan's fate proved too much for Tracey. She collapsed in tears and it was some time before her husband was able to pacify her. Nash realized he would do no good by staying. ‘I'd best be on my way. Thank you for your time. I only hope we can resolve matters as soon as possible. You've suffered long enough.'

Tracey's look was heart-rending. ‘Mr Nash, if you're right, we'll only be swapping one form of suffering for another.' Nash acknowledged the truth of this.

Forrest turned once again to his wife. ‘But at least we'll know, love. I'll show you to the door, Inspector.' He paused in the hall, one hand on the doorknob, before letting Nash out. ‘Do you really
think Megan and the others might have finished up like Marston's victims?'

Nash caught the note of pleading; the need for reassurance behind the big man's words.

‘That's impossible to answer. I don't want to cause mass hysteria but I'm not going to pretend it isn't a possibility.'

‘At least that's honest,' Forrest conceded. ‘Even if it does take away our last bit of hope.'

‘Is it hope, or wishful thinking? I've met relatives of all the girls, as you know. Their families were closely knit like yours. None of the girls was the type to go swanning off without explanation. From the moment you knew Megan was missing, you must have guessed something like this had happened.'

Forrest nodded reluctant agreement. ‘I suppose you're right,' he admitted. ‘It's strange, isn't it? We didn't like to allow the possibility, even between ourselves, because we thought that might be letting Megan down. As if by thinking the worst, we'd make it happen. We should have realized it already had. One thing, though, Mr Nash. Try to get it over with as fast as you can. We need closure.'

 

Jimmy Johnson was a burglar. A careful burglar, cunning and keen witted. One of a brood of six, born to a single mother in Glasgow, Jimmy had overcome this handicap and now earned a comfortable living. During his career he'd suffered two set-backs, each providing him with a valuable lesson. The first: never work with a partner. Partners meant halving the profit, doubling the risk, and they could be less than trustworthy. Second: research your objective thoroughly. Both lessons had resulted in Johnson being a resident in one of Her Majesty's Prisons.

Few people would have guessed the occupation of the mild-mannered little man with the Glaswegian accent. A family man, whose wife worked at the local supermarket and with two young school aged boys. Neighbours assumed that he worked a night shift somewhere, which wasn't far from the truth.